In My Blood: A Shawn Mendes Fanfic
by PortraitofDorianGay
Summary: When Shawn Mendes is sent to prison, the characters he meets will all become friends, enemies, foes and allies. The prison is a minefield of horror, a place of chance meetings and brutal betrayals. (XXX, Non-Con, AHS: Coven, AHS: Murder House, American Horror Story, Shawn Mendes, Tom Holland, EXPLICIT: PROCEED WITH CAUTION, NSFW, 18 , Fiona Goode, Crossover, Prison, MATURE CONTENT)
1. Chapter 1 & 2

In My Blood

One – A Hopeless Place

The words rang out through the dry, still air of the hushed courtroom, like a clock tower chiming through the dead still of night.

" _We, the jury and the above entitled action, find the defendant, Shawn Peter Raul Mendes, guilty of the crime of drug possession with intent to distribute, in breach of Penal Code #841 under Federal and State Law."_

The gasps were audible throughout the silent court, Karen Mendes' small wail of anguish as the only sound. But the pain was far from over.

" _We also find the defendant, Shawn Peter Raul Mendes, guilty of the crime of attempted murder upon Cameron Alexander Dallas, a human being, in breach of Penal Code #41.9, actionable under both Federal and State Law."_

The defendant sat impassive, as the hot, searing pain sliced through his body. He felt disjointed from reality, that he wasn't here. They couldn't be talking about him.

 _I'm going to jail._

The realization struck him like the lash of a hunting crop and settled deep in his groin. He felt sick. His big, brown eyes blinked rapidly to avoid tears.

The Honorable Judge Marcia Clark, who had presided over the four long months' proceedings, sighed.

"Mr. Mendes, please rise before the court."

Shawn wasn't sure that he could, a guttural sickness deep in his body made him queasy and his head spun. Rising shakily, Harvey tried to help him to his feet. Finally standing, Marcia Clark flicked her black bob from her face and looked Shawn dead in the eyes.

"Mr. Mendes, you strike me as a very bright young man, with a very bright future ahead of him. It saddens me to see the young, intelligent likes of yourself before this court. But I have to stand by the facts of this case. The jury have found you guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, of two very serious charges. The files here before me tell me that you are a 20-year-old man, and a very bright one, with no doubt a good future ahead of you. It would be wrong of this court to deprive you of that future, but it would be remiss to forget that you have been found guilty of trafficking $12,000 worth of cocaine toward the Mexican border, and then upon being trapped by law enforcement, pulled a gun on your good friend Mr. Dallas. These are serious crimes for which there must be serious repercussions. These are charges for which you could face up to 25 years in prison. However, this is your very first run-in with the law, you do not seem like an overall threat to society, you seem like a good kid who has got lost in his own head, and obviously began to form bad associations. You have been tried as an adult, as the law supposes, and therefore must be punished as one. Many other judges would not be so lenient with you as I am, and you will not be granted the same leniency a second time.

Shawn Peter Raul Mendes, you have been tried and found guilty before this court. I therefore sentence you to spend between 8 and 10 years at the Men's Central Jail in Los Angeles County, with the possibility of parole yearly. You need some time, Mr. Mendes, to truly think about what you've done. Court is adjourned, we stand in recess."

The bang of Marcia Clark's gavel was a prophetic sound. Like the ushering in of a new era, and the abrupt ending of another. The life of Shawn Mendes would never be the same. Feeling 10 feet underwater, he couldn't hear Harvey Gettleman, his lawyer, babble something about "fair trials" and "appeal the process", all Shawn could see was the emptying jury box and two stocky bailiffs marching his way. The wind had been knocked from his body, and he couldn't get a breath. His chest tight and throat closing, he tried helplessly for breath. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and upper lip, he felt clammy and cold.

"Shawn, you're ok."

 _His Mother's voice._

"It's gonna be ok, Shawn. Control your breathing, remember your breathing, baby."

One gasp. One long gasp of air into his lungs, and out again in a long exhale.

"Just keep breathing, baby. It's ok."

The panic attack subsided as quickly as it had come on, leaving Shawn standing in an almost empty courtroom, with two bailiffs waiting patiently to cuff him.

Karen Mendes stood behind the gate, not permitted through to touch her son, or even to look him in the eye and see he was alright. The bailiffs moved in.

"Come on, fella, hands behind your back."

The cold steel of the handcuffs shook Shawn back into the real world as they snapped tight around his wrists. For the first time in her life, Karen Mendes could not help her son. Tears streamed involuntarily from her eyes as he was marched away.

"I'll see you soon, baby!" she called after him.

Shawn looked back at his Mother, something he instantly regretted. He couldn't even pretend to smile. Seeing his Mother upset, his heart broke instantly. He blinked rapidly, trying to stop the tears gushing from his big brown eyes, but to no avail. Tears fell down his face, hot, stinging his cheeks as his eyes burned. He coughed and spluttered, trying to suppress sobs, which hiccupped his shallow breathing.

The dingy corridor with the strip lighting above felt miles long. Shawn could see the door at the end and knew that the prison van would be waiting. His heart thundered in his chest and the floor felt like it was giving way beneath him.

The door opened, and the harsh gleam of sunlight burned Shawn's eyes, until he realized it was the flashing of cameras.

"Shawn, do you plan to appeal?"

"Shawn, when will you appeal?"

"How are you feeling, Shawn?"

The faces clamoring over one another, looking at him so expectantly terrified him. The cameras flashed some more to capture the tears on his face. This would be the picture everyone would see in tonight's late bulletin. Shawn could hear it now.

 _Serves him right._

 _He wants to act like a big boy, he can suffer the consequences like one._

 _Sobbing little twerp isn't so tough now._

 _I hope he gets fucked in the ass daily._

The van door opened, and Shawn was escorted inside. The door was slammed on him, and he was alone, listening only to the muffled bustle outside the van door. The engine roared to life, and they began to move toward Shawn's new life. The sound of the press got further and further away, and Shawn Mendes was resigned to silence.

Delphine LaLaurie stood behind a steel gate, waiting for the new prisoner. Checking her wristwatch, she was anticipating him coming any minute. They were often disarmed when they saw a woman waiting to book them in, a weapon in her arsenal she had no problem using to its full advantage.

"They're arriving now, Delphine."

Deputy Chief of Security Henry Cavill stood to her right, gun cocked over his shoulder and a small smile on his lips. Delphine smiled;

"I love newbies." She said in her thick Southern accent.

The door of the police van opened, and Shawn Mendes was escorted from both sides. In a cavernous underground tunnel, he was led from the van into what looked like a service door. The smell hit him instantly. Cheap disinfectant bleach barely masking the smell of sweat, feces and urine, all combined with the smell of human decay to create a heady, sickening mix. Led into a steel cage, the officers then left, and he stood cuffed, staring into the coldest eyes he'd ever seen.

Her face showed no emotion, and her eyes bored into Shawn's very soul. A small, rotund woman with dark brown hair scraped back into a bun, she seemed a formidable force, despite her diminutive size.

"Morning." She said in a husky Southern accent, a smile barely tracing on her lips; "I am Delphine LaLaurie, Chief of Security here. This is Mr. Cavill, my Deputy."

A colossal man with a strong, demanding stare looked at him through the bars.

"We're gonna treat you just as good as you treat us," LaLaurie continued; "You give us no trouble, and we'll have no reason to give you any. Do you understand?"

Shawn nodded. Her eyes widened.

" _Do you understand me?_ " she growled. Shawn nodded;

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Open the gates!"

The door to the cage opened, and Cavill took two steps forward.

"Stand over there." Delphine demanded, and Shawn obeyed. Another officer seemed to appear from nowhere and undid the cuffs behind Shawn's back. Shawn could hear Cavill's gun in his hands and knew not to make any sudden movements.

Delphine stood behind a long, steel table and threw a plastic tray on the table with a clatter.

"Undress," she said, "and place everything in this tray."

Shawn, exercising his new freedom, began to remove his grey suit jacket slowly, cautiously.

" _In your own fucking time, sweetheart!_ " she barked, making Shawn jump. He put the jacket in the tray.

"Everything off?" he asked nervously, referring to the obvious fact that Delphine was a woman. She scoffed.

"Sonny," she said, her steel-blue eyes cold and her lips pursed; "You better stop playing with me right now, I've seen more crown jewels in here than the Queen of England, one more won't send me into a fit of hysteria. Now _un. Dress._ " Her quiet voice chilled Shawn to the bone, and he took off his pink shirt. Quivering, he almost tripped as he took off his leather Cuban-heeled boots.

Henry Cavill stood to Shawn's right, gun-cocked in his direction.

"YSL?" he said. Shawn turned to look at the man; "Your boots?" he said. Shawn nodded;

"Yes, Sir."

"Nice." Cavill said; "Eyes front, keep going."

Standing in his underwear, his young, pale body was shivering. Tears welling at his eyes, he removed his socks, the cold tiles freezing to his bare feet.

"And the rest, we ain't got all day." Delphine snapped.

Shawn pulled his white CK's off and tossed them into the tray. Standing there, completely naked in front of three strangers, Shawn had never felt more humiliated in his life. Face burning hot, his throat tight and tears stabbing at his eyes, he could already see them stripping him, not only of his clothes, but of his dignity and personality.

"Turn around, hands on your head."

"Raise your feet."

"Now squat."

The tears came on the last command, squatting toward the floor, completely nude, he lost it.

"Are we finished yet?" he said softly.

Delphine scoffed; "We're finished when _we're_ finished, Sonny."

Naked, and stripped bare of his humanity and all worldly goods, Shawn stood shivering while his clothes were X-Rayed and booked in. Delphine turned to him.

"You are rewarded with personal effects for good behavior, so you can wear your own clothes once you've earned them. Until then, you'll have the Men's Central Jail range, in orange."

Another guard appeared, a middle-aged black man with a piercing stare, who handed Shaun a bright orange jumpsuit and a white T-Shirt which reeked of stale sweat, and a pair of white soft soled Velcro sneakers.

"Get dressed." Delphine ordered. "Mr. Cavill, you go do your rounds. Bastien and I will take the prisoner from here."

In cuffs, Shawn was booked in by a desk sergeant, who gave him the title Prisoner X8998. Shawn knew that this was an effort to de-personalize him. In this place, he would be nothing more than a number.

Led through the labyrinthine corridors, with heavy steel doors slamming behind him and flanked by the two armed security personnel, he felt more and more like he was being swallowed into the belly of the beast. The whole place reeked of decay and bodily fluid, thinly masked by cheap, nose-stinging disinfectant which made Shawn sick to his stomach.

Finally, one door slammed behind him and he found himself in a large concrete room, with powder blue paint chipping off the walls and natural light poking in through the barred skylight windows. A decrepit vending machine stood at one end of the room, and seven or eight metal tables with chairs were bolted to the floor.

"Sit down." Delphine said, pointing to a table in the corner. Shawn did as directed, and abruptly, she left the room, leaving Shawn with the black guard, obviously "Bastien".

Moments later, the heavy steel door opened and Delphine re-appeared, followed by a tall, blond woman, dressed entirely in black. She strode into the room, a cool air of confidence, and her long, wavy hair bouncing. She gave a wry smile as she saw Shawn. Her black patent Manolo Blahniks striking off the floor, she approached.

Sitting opposite him, Shawn could smell her rich, obviously expensive perfume.

"I'm Fiona Goode." She said; "I'm the warden here at Men's Central Jail."

Shawn nodded; "It's nice to meet you, Ma'am." He whimpered.

She raised her eyebrows, unused to courteous prisoners.

"This," she said gesturing to the room; "Is the visitation center. Visitors are allowed every second Tuesday to the maximum of an hour. This will be increased to weekly for good behavior, for bad behavior, they will stop altogether. Is that clear?"

Shawn nodded; "Yes, Ma'am."

Wagging a red polished finger at him, she looked stern; "In my prison, I will not tolerate violence, impertinence, laziness or disobedience. You've been sent to me, and your ass will belong to me. My guards will not hesitate to enforce the rules I have set forth, and it's in your own best interests to adhere to them. For good behavior, you will be rewarded with your set privileges, and for bad behavior… _well_ , we won't go there yet, shall we?"

Shawn shook his head. Fiona Goode smiled.

"You won't have many dealings with me, I should hope." She said, "But in dealings with my guards and staff, let's make something clear. You do whatever they tell you needs done, make your bed, scrub your toilet. I don't give a shit. In this prison, regardless of the crime you've committed, you will do hard time. If you misbehave, you will only make that time harder. Do you understand?"

Shawn nodded again; "Yes, Ma'am."

Fiona checked her watch. "Well," she said in her raspy voice; "I'm afraid you've missed lunch, but it'll give you ample time to meet your cell-mates before dinner. Good day to you, X8998."

With a turn on her designer heels, and a waft of her distinctive perfume, Fiona Goode was gone, and Shawn ordered to his feet.

 _It's nothing like you see in the movies._

Shawn had seen enough prison movies to expect open cell doors, people playing cards, mingling with one another, into each other's cells. Men's Central was nothing like that. Going into the East Tower Block, where Shawn learned he'd be staying for his sentence, it was four levels of closed cell doors, with people peering out from the small food hatches, eyes boring into the "newbie".

"New boy in the house!" came one voice. Delphine smacked her baton off the steel door, a sound which echoed throughout the gargantuan space.

"Quiet down in there!" she barked.

On the second floor, Delphine administered three sharp "raps" on the door of Cell #221.

"Prepare for entry!" she called. Two hands emerged through the food hatch, and she cuffed them, before the door swung open.

"This will be your new home for the time being." She said to Shawn. "Get used to it, you don't like it then go tell someone who gives a shit."

By the shoulder, Bastien put Shawn into the room, undid his cuffs, then the green steel door was slammed behind him. Terrified, he could hardly turn around to face whoever was in this cell with him.

" _Hi!_ " came a chirpy voice from behind him. Shawn turned to see a small, thin white boy, with a mop of sandy blond hair smiling at him. He looked like the least threatening person Shawn had ever seen.

"Hey," Shawn attempted to smile back.

"My name's Tom." The boy said, in a lilting British accent which Shawn was not expecting; "Tom Holland's the name." He extended a hand, which Shawn accepted; "Shawn Mendes." He said in a hushed voice. Tom leapt up onto the top bunk.

"Sorry, mate." He said, "I've got top bunk."

Shawn nodded; "That's ok."

On the bottom steel bunk, Shawn saw two blankets and a rolled mattress waiting for him. As he began to try and make himself at home, Tom chatted. Unusually, Shawn welcomed the inane chatter, it was helping to keep him from an anxiety attack. This still didn't feel real.

"I'm so glad it's someone nice they've got me in with," he said, "Last cellmate I had was this terrifying Mexican who grunted at me all the time. I thought he was gonna murder me, man! So what you in for?"

Shawn tried to downplay it; "Erm…drugs."

Tom cocked an eyebrow; "You don't look much like a junkie? Pardon the expression, sorry that was rude, I didn't mean…"

"No, no. It's ok." Shawn said demurely; "I'm not a junkie. I was selling it."

"Ahhh," Tom said, "Rough ride, man. I'm in a similar predicament. Done three years of a seven year stretch, lawyer says I'll likely be out in another one."

Shawn nodded, trying not to think about the 8 to 10 stretch he was in for, which made him feel sicker than he already did.

Looking around him, the situation was bleak. One rusty sink below the barred, frosted window. One toilet with not a hint of privacy and an untrustworthy looking roll of paper, a bunk bed and one shelf on the wall. The whole room was white brick, with that fluorescent strip light which was already giving Shawn a migraine.

"So, where you from?" Tom asked; "If I'm prying, tell me to mind my own fucking business, mate."

On a normal day, Shawn would have, but today, at this vulnerable stage, it was just nice to have someone to talk to.

"Nah, it's cool. I'm from Toronto, in Canada. You?"

"I'm from London originally, family moved to LA five years ago, so now I'm a citizen."

"Same." Shawn said.

Rolling out his tiny mattress, Shawn could see the stains of tenants' past. It made him queasy, and it was tipping him over the edge. He felt the bile rise in his throat, the sweat pouring from him. He bolted to the toilet moments before a line of hot, yellow bile erupted from his mouth, clattering against the metal pot, which smelt unholy, further compounding Shawn's sickness. His roaring gags made his stomach hurt as he spluttered into the pan.

Dragging himself away from the pot, he leaned against the wall, groaning and grunting. Tom handed him the toilet paper; "Here you go, man. I know the feeling."

Shawn wiped his mouth and his forehead; "Thank you."

Suppressing his urge to cry again, Shawn coughed; "It just doesn't feel real. Is this really happening?"

Tom smiled a sideways "life is tough" smile. "I'm afraid so, cookie. It's not that bad in here, really." He said; "It takes some getting used to, but you'll see in time. I'll show you everything you need to know, you don't need to be afraid! This is gonna be just like Shawshank Redemption but a lot more fun!"

Shawn didn't get the reference.

Two – Things Go Bump in the Night

The soda tasted like home. Tom had offered Shawn a soda as they sat cross-legged on the bottom bunk, discussing the politics of prison. It was funny how something to simple as a Diet Coke could make him feel slightly better.

"Obviously," Tom said; "The food is fucking vile, but you learn not to say anything, or they'll starve you. Meals are served communally in the mess hall. Everyone works during the day. Best jobs are kitchen and floors, you don't wanna be in the workshop or laundry. Cell tosses are totally random and arbitrary, don't try to look for a pattern to them, there isn't one. I don't wanna get my privileges taken away, so _please_ don't have contraband."

Shawn nodded; "What about gangs?"

Tom looked puzzled; "I don't know how to put it to you, man. They're fucking scary sometimes. Just try to keep your head down and blend in. I'm lucky, they don't want me, because I'm a little weak runt who has no defense except sarcasm, movie and pop culture references. They might want you, so try and stick with me, they might leave you alone."

Shawn didn't like that "might".

A deafening electronic buzz sounded for dinner, and Shawn could hear cell doors opening. Filing out, Shawn and Tom joined the sea of prisoners heading toward the dining hall.

" _newbieindahouse_!" Shawn heard, turning around, he could see himself as an orange blip in a sea of blue. He gasped. Tom smiled; "Yeah, mate. You don't half stick out like a sore thumb."

"I thought people got to wear their own clothes?" Shawn asked.

"Only for good behavior." Tom said; "Do this lot look like good boys?"

Shawn's stomach dropped again.

The Dining Hall was an enormous, high-ceilinged room painted gunmetal grey. Rows of benches sat bolted to the floor, and fluorescent lights flickered overhead.

"There's an order to this," Tom said; "Main Block go to dinner first, then West Block, then South, and we go last."

Shawn nodded.

If Shawn had had any appetite, it would have been vanquished at the mere sight of Men's Central Jail food. On a bleak yellow plastic tray, a few spoons of slop were placed haphazardly in each section, and a bread roll on top.

He swore he saw the food move.

Lights out was 10pm every night. Tom and Shawn were back in their cells after dinner by 8:30. It had been the first glimpse of Shawn's other neighbors. Most people had hardly looked his way, but there were a few hard stares in his direction on account of his "newbie" jumpsuit. He'd never felt more on edge.

"Fancy a game of cards?" Tom asked. Shawn nodded;

"Sounds great!"

Playing cards made Shawn feel normal, and according to Tom's advice, that was the best thing possible.

"Do what you'd normally do, be as normal as you can. If you allow yourself to think like a prisoner, you'll become institutionalized. I read about it once, it's called self-fulfilling prophecy. What you think you are, you become."

When the lights shut off and Shawn climbed into his bunk, it began to feel real. There was no soft cotton bedding, just hard starched, scratchy blankets, cold oppressive steel under the thin mattress. There was no sound of his Mother watching Conan to help her fall asleep, no soft moonlight peeking through his window; just the inky blackness of nothing, with a pale orange light creeping under the steel door, and the occasional shadow of boots passing.

That's when Shawn knew it was real. He was in jail. And there was no way out. The tears came, and this time he didn't bother to suppress them.

Just this morning he was a free man, shaving his face at the bathroom mirror. His Mother was by his side, her eyes wide. "It's gonna be ok." She reassured him; "Harvey will get you a non-custodial deal, he promised he would. You'll be back here by nightfall, warm in your own bed, and all this will be over."

It felt like a lifetime had passed since then. Now, Shawn Mendes lay in prison, sobbing himself to sleep.

Shawn awoke to a stirring just beyond the door. In that dreamy realm between consciousness and sleep, he thought it was his Mother coming to check on him. The voice whispered.

"Tom?"

That's when Shawn remembered where he was.

"No, please. Not tonight." He heard Tom groan from the top bunk. Shawn remained still, pretending to be asleep.

" _Move it_." The voice sternly commanded. It was a man's voice.

" _Please…_ " Tom begged from his bed; "I'm exhausted."

There was a sigh, but certainly not of resignation. "You wanna see Mommy this week? Or shall we tell her you're in the infirmary with a fractured fucking skull?! Now, I'm gonna give you 'til the count of five…"

" _Ok, Ok, Ok_." Tom beseeched, clambering noisily from his bed; "I'm coming, Sir."

"Good boy."

With that, the cell door closed, and Shawn was alone again.

He awoke to the door closing with a thunderous bang. His heart raced with the fright. Having to re-remember where he was, was a crushing blow to the young man, making his stomach lurch. He lay silent, eyes trying to accustom to the darkness.

A peculiar sound disturbed him. It was like a sharp intake of breath. It happened again and was followed by two sharp exhales. Shawn dared to turn around, to try and find the source, but his eyes would not get used to the inky blackness. He could make out the toilet, and a large shadow next to it. The shadow moved, and he knew it was Tom. Tom was crying.

"Hey," Shawn croaked; "You ok?"

Tom's voice was small; "Y-yeah…it's f-fine. G-g-go b-back to sl-sleep." He whimpered.

Shawn didn't want to pry any more.

"Let's go! Up and at 'em! Get outta those beds, you bunch of lazy fucks! Move it!"

It was 6am. Nothing like an early start. For the third time, Shawn Mendes had to remind himself where he was, and it hurt like hell.


	2. Chapters 3 & 4

Three – Work for the Working Man

Morning roll call was a tiresome process by which all prisoners were required to stand outside their cell doors until all checked and present. Then, breakfast began. Shawn felt his stomach rumble. He'd been too nervous to eat the whole day and night before, so by now he was ravenous, the pangs in his stomach making him dizzy.

In the cavernous dining hall, greasy looking oatmeal was slopped into his bowl, three rashers of stringy, greasy bacon and a crusty bread roll on his tray. Regardless of the vile food, Shawn was starving and wolfed it down. The lukewarm, almost transparent coffee was sour to the taste.

His stomach still rumbling, Shawn picked apart the bread roll which threatened to snap his teeth if eaten whole.

Without warning, a young man, not much older than Tom and Shawn appeared at their side, scooting up next to Tom;

"Hey, Tommy!" he said, hyperactively; "Did you hear what's happening? They're moving Derek here from South Block."

Tom's eyes widened; " _You're fucking joking?!"_

Shawn looked on, curious. The hyper young man with the dark hair looked over; "Are we talking to you?!" he snapped. Shawn's eyes immediately went to his oatmeal.

"It's cool," Tom said; "This is my new cellmate, Shawn."

"Oh," the young man said, "Sorry, bro!"

He extended his hand across the table; "Stiles Stilinski!" Shawn shook his hand;

"Shawn Mendes."

"Good to meetcha." "Stiles" said with a boyish smile. His dark, cropped hair and upturned nose made him look more like a teenager than a grown man in jail.

They got back to their discussion and Shawn tried not to listen in.

"They're moving him here for good behavior, apparently!"

"Good behavior, my fucking arse! The man's a maniac!"

Tom was quiet this morning, and Shawn didn't want to push the issue and make his only ally in this place mad at him, so he left him to it. However, he knew something was wrong when one person struck ice cold fear into Tom's eyes. The baton walloping against the table made everybody jump and exclaim. Following the arm holding said baton, Shawn saw an officer. A young officer, with cropped dark hair and a piercing stare.

"Morning, Tommy." He said condescendingly; "Sleep well?"

Shawn recognized the voice from the middle of the night.

Tom nodded in the affirmative. The officer smiled a wicked grin. "Good," he said; "Just wanted to tell you that sadly your Mom won't be able to visit on Tuesday, she was arrested this morning on a morals charge. Guess you just never know with people, do you?"

Sliding his baton off the table, the officer turned on his heel and left.

Stiles' brown eyes narrowed; "I'd love to put that nightstick so far up his ass and twist…"

"Leave it, Stiles." Tom sighed; "It's not worth it."

"You know that cocky prick had something to do with that!"

"Stiles, I know, but there's nothing I can do about it. Just let it go."

"So, what's that Stiles guy in for?" Shawn asked absent-mindedly. He and Tom had been assigned floors duty together and were currently mopping the gargantuan hallways of the East Block. The mop handles were only three feet long, and the 6''4 Shawn had to bend almost halfway to mop the floor in the desired fashion, a "figure of 8". It was backbreaking work, the muscles in his lower back screaming. The mud-colored water stunk of that cheap disinfectant.

"Fraud," Tom said nonchalantly; "Guy's a genius with computers, got into a bunch of bank accounts, fleeced the lot."

Shawn's brown eyes widened as he flicked a stray hair from his eyes; "Wow," he said; "And yet he seems so nice."

Tom laughed; "He is nice, unlike a lot of them in here."

"Anyone I should stay away from?"

Tom chuckled again; "Try… _everyone_. We've all done something that's landed us in here."

"What about that guard at the table there?" Shawn asked, unable to help himself; "Who's that?"

Tom sighed, rolling his eyes; "That's Deputy Jonas. For your own sake, stay away from him." Looking around him, Tom hushed his voice; "You've met Chief LaLaurie and Deputy Chief Cavill?"

Shawn nodded, flushing as he remembered them.

"Well," Tom continued, "That's their golden boy. The last person to raise a complaint against him wound up spending four months in the infirmary."

Shawn's jaw dropped.

"Head down," Tom said; "Keep working."

"Hello, baby!"

Shawn's mother's voice was a comforting, yet heartbreaking sound. She sounded a million miles away.

"Hi, Mom." Shawn croaked.

"How are you?" she asked; "I was trying all day yesterday, they wouldn't let me through. Aaliyah misses you so much, she was devastated last night."

Shawn choked at the mention of his little sister; "God, I miss her too."

"How is the place?" she asked; "Are you OK?"

"Yeah," Shawn said; "I'm ok. I'm just trying to adjust."

His voice quivered, Karen knew he was lying.

"Really?"

He cracked; "I'm scared, Mom."

"I know, baby. Try not to be, it'll be ok. I'm gonna come see you on Tuesday, the new lawyer says that's ok."

" _New lawyer?_ " Shawn asked, incredulously.

"Yeah." Karen said; "I fired Harvey, after telling us he'd get you off and gets you 10 years?! We've got a new one, she's setting up an appointment to come see you, hopefully for Friday. She's really good, Shawn. Very expensive."

"ONE MORE MINUTE!" boomed the guard's voice.

"Sorry darling," Karen said; "I don't wanna get you in trouble, I'll go now. I love you. And don't you worry about a thing, we're gonna get you out of there."

"I love you too, Mom. Tell Aaliyah."

The line was dead.

Raised in middle-class neighborhoods, Shawn had an atypical, even stereotypical view of prison. Every inmate would be buff hardmen with a chip on their shoulder, a gold tooth and a scorpion tattoo on their arm. So when a tall, effeminate man strode down the hallway beside them, long braids swinging from side to side, hand posed on hip as if he were on a Milan catwalk, Shawn was flabbergasted. He was unaware of his staring.

"What the fuck _you_ lookin' at?!" he barked. Shawn was struck dumb.

"S-sorry, nothing."

"Yeah, you bet nothin', motherfucker."

When he was clearly out of sight, Tom began to chuckle under his breath.

"What was that about?" Shawn asked, incredulous.

"What? You've never seen a gay man before?"

"Well…I…I just thought…"

Tom smiled his boyish smile; "You've got some learning to do, kid."

The single word Shawn had been dreading was _shower_. You know what they say about showering in male prisons. Thus, his heart thundered when Tom told him the news.

"It became a rule around here a couple of months ago that we freshen up before dinner. The Warden likes us clean after work."

Despite his misgivings, Shawn knew he had no choice. After his backbreaking work mopping, he could use a long, hot shower. Furthermore, he hadn't showered since the previous morning, so he didn't quite smell his freshest.

Trooped in in groups of 30, each man was handed a hard, ragged towel.

Tom and Shawn occupied a corner of the huge changing room, which stank of body odor. As they undressed, Shawn's face flushed red as he recalled his humiliating strip search the previous day.

"Don't think about it," Tom said; "Just do it."

Tom's clothes fell to the floor and Shawn could see the rippling muscle he'd been hiding. His slight frame would never have betrayed such a body. Smooth vanilla skin, with bulging biceps and a rippling six-pack. Shawn was taken aback and slightly ashamed of his own body.

Shawn was tall, thin but with a strong core muscle from his hockey and soccer playing. He'd always been a little too slight for football, and never strong enough for rugby. Slipping out of his clothes, he was further embarrassed by his own feeling of inadequacy. As he and Tom strolled toward the open showers, Shawn caught the snide sneers, stares and jeers of his fellow inmates as he scurried, towel bunched up over his groin.

"Boy, you ain't got nothin' we ain't gonna see!"

"You see that ass, girls? I wanna bite it!"

"Nice and smooth for the boys, huh?"

Standing in his flip flops next to the shower head, Shawn could feel the icy chill of the water seeping in to his bare feet, sending shockwaves up his legs. Of course, hot water would be too much to ask. Bracing himself, he plunged himself under the icy faucet, eliciting a small screech as he did so, much to the delight of his fellow prisoners.

Gasping as the frigid water cascaded down his lithe, pale body, soaking his dark hair, making every nerve ending on his body stand to attention.

The smell of damp, cheap soap and that pervading odor of cheap bleach stung Shawn's nostrils as he immersed himself in the frigid waters. He was never so relieved to see that the soap was in hand dispensers. Lathering himself in the sickly-sweet concoction, he bathed as quickly as possibly and grabbed his towel, vacating the showers at Tom's heels.

Shuddering back in his cell, Shawn watched Tom undress. The way he moved was lithe and elegant, almost dancer-like. His soft, smooth skin looked appealing to the touch, and his rippling abs made him seem more like a man than his boyish face did.

 _Get it out of your head, Shawn._

Tom applied his roll-on deodorant (aerosols were not allowed) and combed his hair with the rubber comb (a prison can't be too careful). Shawn tried not to watch as Tom rolled deodorant on his inner thighs and pubic area, lifting his testicles and tracing a small line underneath. It was as he studied Tom's smooth, round butt that he noticed the marks. Faint, purple bruises, six or seven in a row, in perfect formation.

 _Teeth marks._

Caught in his daydream, Shawn did not see Tom's dark hazel eyes in the small plastic mirror, looking right at him.

"Alright," Tom said, snapping Shawn out of his daydream; "Stop the charade, what are you staring at?"

"I-I w-wasn't staring!" Shawn protested. Tom's eyes narrowed as he turned around.

"Mate," Tom said; "I've been watching you for five minutes looking at me."

Tom advanced slowly toward Shawn, a coy smile playing on his lips; "Are you liking what you see?" he asked, his London accent a raspy whisper.

A nod was the answer.

"Shawn?!"

He snapped to attention. Tom laughed. "You alright, mate?" he asked; "You've been staring blankly for about five minutes!"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Shawn said; "Just thinking."

Tom smiled a friendly smile; "Grab a soda, and spill."

Tom had a girlfriend on the outside. Cassandra was her name. He'd shown Shawn a picture of her, a crude, pixelated selfie of a beautiful young girl. However, whom he longed to see most was who he called "baby". Tessa was a blue Staffordshire bull terrier whose picture was over twice the size of Cassandra's.

They sat, cross-legged on Shawn's bottom bunk drinking sodas and chatting.

"After my Father flew the coop," Tom said; "My Mom and I lost everything. We were housed in Lincoln Heights, a total ghetto shithole. The only way we could afford to live was if my Mom "worked nights". I didn't want that for her, so I started to sell dope for some of the local boys, but I was caught and given seven years for it."

"Memories are sometimes all you have in here." Tom said, with a melancholy expression. "You've got to hold on to them, no matter what happens to you in here. Hold on to the fact that one day, you're gonna leave this place. That's what keeps me holding on."

His hazel eyes looked up through tears, and he gave a smile; "Anyway, Mendes the Mysterious. What's your story?"

Shawn gulped a sip of Diet Coke.

"Isn't much to tell," he said. "I was ordinary. There was nothing sad, or tragic in my life. Just a burning ambition. When we left Toronto to come here, I guess I thought I'd make something of myself. Maybe musically, maybe not. But all I knew was that I wanted more than what my parents had, more than the same, sad old story of leaving school, going to college, get a job, a family, a mortgage. I wanted to break that chain, do something… _important._ Then Cameron came along."

"Your boyfriend?" Tom asked. Shawn's eyes widened.

"How did you kn…"

"Call it a sixth sense." Tom said, looking proud of himself, "Anyway, tell me about him."

Shawn hung his head.

"He swept into my life this one night. I was in a bar, underage of course, and he came up and started talking to me. The way he looked, the way he spoke, he just amazed me in every way possible. I wasn't even sure I was… _you know_ , gay. But he just totally knocked me out. I dunno about love at first sight, but if its possible, yeah, that's what happened. The days passed, weeks went by and we got closer and closer. Even our fights were fun."

"What about the sex?" Tom asked, "If this guy's as hot as you say?"

Shawn smiled, his first real smile in days; "So good… _we named it!_ " he whispered.

Tom laughed; "So…what happened?"

Shawn breathed deep to stifle tears;

"He put me in jail."

Four – "Just Like Butch & Sundance"

The night was hot. A warm wind rolled off the Mojave Desert and swilled around the Los Angeles basin, blanketing the City of Angels in a swathe of still, sultry air. It was a surprising heat, for it was only mid-April.

The text came at three minutes past midnight.

 _Meet me outside in 5. Xx_

Shawn grabbed his boots and his denim jacket and crept out of his bedroom. He looked up the hallway, the living room lights were off. He could hear the faint sound of Conan O'Brien from his Mother's room. The house was hot that night, every window opened to remove some of the humidity, and the faint hum of the ceiling fans all still on. In his socks, Shawn padded to the door, quietly unlatched it and stepped out into the night.

No time after locking the door and putting his boots on, did Cameron appear. His car gleamed panther black in the hot L.A night.

Shawn beamed when he saw him.

"Get in, baby. Let's go for a ride."

Laurel Canyon was always Shawn's favorite spot in L.A. To drive up there and see it was to love it. The panoramic view of the City of Angels spread out before his feet like his own kingdom.

The plan had been set for a month, but Cameron still wouldn't let Shawn in all the way. They sat on the hood of Cameron's car, both their brown eyes glinting in the pale moonlight.

"Come on, Cam!" Shawn begged; "I can't be a good sidekick if I don't know what's happening!"

Cameron held Shawn's chin between his fingers; "Look at me, do you trust me?" he asked in his deep Texan drawl. Shawn nodded;

"Yes."

"Then trust me when I tell you that our lives are gonna change tonight. We're gonna be back by sunrise, right here where we started. After tonight, we're outta here. We have a shot, baby. We have a shot at a real life, not this. I'm talking about a _real_ one. If you trust me, like I trust you, we're outta here by this time tomorrow. So just chill, alright?"

Shawn nodded, a warm wave of emotion washing over him, rising deep from within him.

"I love you, Cam."

Cameron smiled in the darkness; "I love you too, baby."

The car shot like a bullet down the deserted Pacific Coast Highway, Aerosmith on the speakers. Shawn had his window down, his arm surfing on the hot night winds. Cameron bit his lower lip, his caramel skin glowing with excitement, and dark chocolate eyes aflame with desire. He put his hand on Shawn's thigh and squeezed.

"Just like Butch and Sundance, baby."

Shawn smiled, he didn't get the reference.

The desert mountains rose out of the night before them, silhouetted against the inky blackness of the night sky. Dust shot out in plumes as the black Mercedes pulled to a stop at the roadside.

"I need a wizz and a smoke," Cameron said.

Shawn hadn't been aware he was dozing off. Checking the time, it was 2:47am.

"There's Red Bull and snacks in the trunk." Cameron said as he exited the car.

Shawn trooped around to the trunk and popped it. He fished in the Wal-Mart bag and found Red Bull and Doritos, his favorite chips. The night had started to cool, and Shawn could feel his skin prickle with goosebumps. The blanket, sitting at a rakish angle looked inviting, so Shawn grabbed it.

That's when he saw what lay underneath.

The silver barrel of the gun gleamed in the moonlight. Brutal and unmistakable.

Shawn gasped as he realized what it sat atop. Despite being wrapped in cling-film and wax-dipped, Shawn knew what drugs looked like. And there were more packages here than he could ever have fathomed.

"Cam?!" he called out, his throat dry; "What the fuck is this?!"

Cameron did up his trousers and sauntered over, lighting a cigarette as he did so. He winked at Shawn.

"You really have to ask?"

Shawn was speechless; "Cam, _we can't do this_."

Cameron sighed; "Baby, you were the one who wanted your life to change! Look at all this, this is everything you've ever wanted. Just a couple more hours and it'll be gone. And we're gonna have one hell of a life together. Please trust me on this. _I need you, Shawn._ "

Shawn didn't quite know why he'd pleaded Cameron to have the gun in the car with them, maybe he could feel safer if he could see it and know where it was. But every time he saw it lying there on the back seat, draped in the blanket, his heart beat in his ears, thunderous and deafening.

The sirens had started about ten miles outside San Diego. Shawn's stomach lurched and sweat broke out from every pore on his body as he saw the lights in the distance on the highway behind them.

"Cool it, baby. They're not for us." Cameron said, keeping his eyes on the road.

" _Oh, Jesus please…"_ Shawn whispered, clasping his hands as if in prayer, sweat running down his back. He wiggled his toes and clutched at the St. Christopher on his neck, trying to ground himself to prevent a panic attack.

Three police cars emerged from the black veil of night and raced down the Pacific Coast Highway behind them.

Gaining on them, they signaled the car to pull over.

Shawn began to hyperventilate; " _Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. We're done. Oh, Jesus."_

"Not fucking yet!" Cameron said through gritted teeth, as he floored the accelerator, shooting down the highway.

" _Cameron, what the fuck are you doing?!_ " Shawn wailed as the three cars chased them. "Cam, please stop!" he yelled; "Cameron, STOP THE CAR!"

The first shot rang out and struck the asphalt at their rear tire.

Like a man possessed, Shawn leapt from his seat and grabbed the gun. His fingers wrapped around the cold steel Smith & Wesson, he took a deep breath.

" _Stop. The. Car._ "

"Put the gun down!"

Shawn was hyperventilating as the officers approached, guns poised. There were five of them, their guns all trained at Shawn's head. The sirens and headlights illuminated the desert, the smell of the sea and the sound of the waves crashing off the cliffs below pierced the deathly silence.

He didn't know quite what had happened. With Cameron on his knees in the dirt, arms outstretched in full surrender, Shawn had the gun trained directly at his head. Cameron's dark eyes were pleading, tears in his eyes.

" _Shawn don't_." He whimpered; " _Please, don't."_

" _Stop talking._ " Shawn demanded; " _This is all your fault_."

"Come on," said one deputy calmly; "Put the gun down, man. We can talk this through."

Cameron sobbed; "Please, Shawn. Listen to the man!"

" _You lying fuck!_ " Shawn roared, tears dripping down his face; _"You said it would be ok, YOU SAID IT WOULD BE OK!"_

"It will be," said the deputy; "Shawn, is it?"

He nodded.

"Shawn, listen. I know it doesn't seem like it right now, but everything will be alright. We can stand here all night, but that ain't gonna solve anything. We can go down to the station, grab a cup of coffee and talk. That's all I wanna do, is talk to you. But we aren't gonna get anywhere like this. So please, Shawn. Put the goddamn gun down."

Shawn dropped to his knees on the ground, letting the gun fall, his body racked with sobs.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry!" he wailed.

Shawn Mendes and Cameron Dallas were arrested as the dim orange glow of dawn broke out on the horizon of the Pacific Ocean.


	3. Chapters 5 & 6

Five – Ebbtide

It was an excruciatingly hot day in August when Melissa McCall, a local nurse had decided to go for a jog in Beacon Hills Reserve. A heavily wooded nature reserve in Northern California, bordering the town of Beacon Hills, it was a dark and forbidding place, even in broad daylight. Despite being forbidden at night, it was a well-known lover's lane.

Jogging up the winding, darkly canopied paths, Melissa McCall had first spotted the white form in the underbrush from a distance and thought it to be discarded rubbish. Only upon jogging ever closer, did the form begin to take shape.

Her screams could be heard for miles.

The young woman had been beautiful in life. In death, she was torn to pieces, to the point she could only be identified by her dental records. Originally thought to be an animal attack, post-mortem results had shown she'd been raped and strangled before being savagely torn from stem to stern.

Four more bodies turned up in Beacon Hills Reserve over the course of that summer, leaving local authorities baffled. The state of California, and the town of Beacon Hills was gripped by fear, in the clutches of a madman known only as the "Wolf of Beacon Hills".

In late November, as the trees were stripped bare, and the ground crunched with fallen, dead leaves, did the fear subside. One anonymous tip off, had broken the case.

Derek Lucien Hale, a local resident, living in a dilapidated Victorian house only half a mile from the reserve, was arrested for the murders. In his basement, a chamber of horrors awaited detectives. Every implement from axes to scythes and butcher's knives were found, and blood matching all five victims was traced to the cement floors, walls and even the ceiling.

After one of the quickest trials in Californian history, and massive media attention, Derek Hale was found guilty and sentenced to death by lethal injection. The judge had said at sentencing;

"It is the only punishment fit for a person as inherently and unfathomably wicked as yourself. May God have mercy on your corpse."

The yard of Men's Central Jail was full, the September evening air pleasantly warm. The sun was beginning to set, casting a pale orange glow over the sandy yard. Some played touch football, others walked, meanwhile three stood in a corner talking. Those three were Shawn Mendes, Tom Holland and Stiles Stilinski.

"I cannot believe they're doing this!" Stiles said, panic in his big, brown eyes.

"How could they take him off death row?!" Tom scoffed; "He's a beast!"

"Apparently, his mental state cannot be ascertained beyond a reasonable doubt." Stiles said, in a mock-official voice; " _Bullshit!_ "

In Men's Central, South Block was where the worst of the worst were kept, including, on the basement floor, the men condemned to death. This had formerly included Derek Hale.

Their yards were separate, all four blocks fenced off from one another, for fear of a prison riot. The East Block faced the South Block yard.

"Just knowing that he could be right over there," Stiles said; "It's unnerving. I'm losing sleep, I'm gonna lose my hair soon!"

Tom laughed, it was impossible to take Stiles Stilinski seriously.

Shawn was puzzled; "But," he said, "just because you guys are from the same town, doesn't mean he'll have anything against you. Does it?"

Stiles rolled his eyes; "Wake up and smell the maple syrup, Canada! You don't know shit about this man, or our town, therefore you can't exactly comprehend what's gonna happen to me if that sick mofo gets his hands on me!"

The ear-splitting horn sounded. Exercise time was over.

As the boys made their way back inside, Shawn glanced toward the gates of South Block. There stood a man, cut off from the rest of the inmates. He stood motionless, glowering through the gates. Shawn could feel their eyes lock. From such a distance, it was impossible to tell, but Shawn could swear he felt the malevolence in the man's glare. Shivering, Shawn turned away.

Starving, Shawn wolfed down his salt pork and mashed potatoes so fast he gave himself indigestion. Belching under his breath, he hadn't heard or noticed the commotion begin behind him. Only when a meal tray came crashing down in front of him, scattering food debris and water everywhere, did he jump to attention. Tom's eyes widened as the fight broke out. A white skinhead and a young Hispanic launched at one another just a foot behind Shawn's back. He sat, frozen to the spot, as blood burst from the nose of the Hispanic.

"Fuck you, you greaser bastard!"

All at once, four others had joined the affray, landing punches and elbows wherever necessary.

The whole dining room shook as four warning shots were fired into the ceiling. Shawn ducked for cover as plaster fell from above. A hushed silence fell over the crowd, and the four men were pulled from each other. Deputy Chief Cavill grabbed the skinhead and plunged his nightstick deep in the man's groin with a grotesque "thump!". The guy screamed, doubling over in pain.

Administering one almighty kick to the side of the head with his heavy leather jackboot, Cavill then cuffed the skinhead before dragging him to his feet. Five other guards administered similar justice upon the remaining four fighters.

Dragging the skinhead off, Cavill turned to face his silent audience.

"Anyone else want some of what this lousy fuck's gonna get?! Didn't think so. Get back to your food!"

Shawn was almost paralyzed. He couldn't believe what had just happened.

"Is that…a regular thing?" he asked incredulously. Tom and Stiles grinned.

"Look at the ceiling, you tell me." Stiles said.

Looking up, Shawn could see the ceiling and tops of the walls were riddled with bullet holes.

"The outbreak was dealt with swiftly, and nobody else was hurt, Ma'am."

Fiona Goode raised an eyebrow; "And their punishments?"

Cavill smiled; "Swift. A week in solitary for each of them, and bruised fruits for a few days."

Fiona grinned; "I've always loved your approach to justice, Henry. Delphine and Richard will be bringing me my prisoner soon, won't they? I have to leave promptly, I have a dinner engagement."

"That they will, should be here any minute."

Fiona rattled her nails across her cigarette case, before lighting a Marlboro Gold, blue smoke billowing around the huge, pristine office.

"Grand. Go on home, Henry. Don't let Delia get worried."

Henry nodded with a boyish smile; "Sure thing, Fiona. See you tomorrow."

Blowing smoke from her nose, Fiona waved half-heartedly.

Three raps on the office door alerted Fiona that Delphine LaLaurie was at the door.

"Come in!" Fiona rasped between drags of her cigarette.

Delphine and another two guards escorted the shackled and muzzled Derek Hale into the soft carpeted office. His icy blue eyes bored into Fiona.

"Sit him down." She said.

When Derek was sat opposite her and cuffed to the chair, Fiona instructed that his mouth-guard be removed.

Delphine stood in the corner of the room silently.

"Good evening, Mr. Hale." Fiona said with a smile.

"Warden." Derek said in his gruff voice, his expression stony.

"Tell me, did you do as I instructed?"

Derek sighed; "DeBlasio and Rolf are going to attempt an escape on Halloween night. They say that they have access to knives. I don't think their plan is much more sophisticated than that."

Fiona laughed; "I see. And their alleged access to the prison blueprints? Did you obtain access to them?"

"Yes, I did. They're from 1974. The year before the extensions were built, and the old air ducts sealed and replaced by central heating."

"And they don't know that?"

"Of course not." Derek said, a cruel smile playing at his lips.

Fiona loved that smile. On the moments when Hale would let loose, and those plump, pink lips would split into an evil smile. She pictured his lips on hers, those eyes open and boring into her own. Those rough, manly hands sweeping over her body, grabbing her hair and forcing her down to his groin. That same smile playing at his lips as she filled her mouth with his engorged manhood. He was rough, rugged and brutish. Just the way she liked.

Back in the present, Fiona lit another cigarette.

"And that's all?"

Derek nodded.

"Very well, Mr. Hale." She said; "You'll be moved to East Block last thing tomorrow evening, as per our agreement."

"Warden," he said respectfully, another cruel smile playing upon his lips, and a devilish glint in his eye; "Could I ask just one more favor?"

Fiona's eyes widened; "On top of sparing you from the lethal injection? _And_ moving you into a new block?"

"What you've done for me is more than I could have hoped, but there is just one small matter I'd ask respectfully that you see into? In return for more intel, of course."

Fiona smiled, her voice a raspy whisper; "Put your cards on the table."

The night drew in blacker than ebony, with a howling wind, signifying that Summer was truly at an end. Shawn had received mail to the cell, stating that he would be collected by a guard at 10:30 for a meeting with his lawyer. He got a slight rush, remembering his conversation with his Mother.

 _We're gonna get you out of there._

The changing of the guard took place at 8:00am and 8:00pm on a four days on-four days off basis, with day and night shift rotating bi-weekly.

Nicholas Jerry Jonas enjoyed the nightshift. More motivated at night, and power mad on Red Bull, he felt energized and in control. As Senior Night Watchman, he took delight in doing the rounds and checking in on certain prisoners. Tonight would be no different.

Shawn and Tom played cards again. Sitting on Shawn's bunk, they were in a spirited game of "Shithead", a game Tom said was popular in Britain, but Shawn was pretty sure Tom had made it up, as the rules seemed to change in his own favor. Shawn didn't mind, it was a welcome reprieve from the gritty life he was trying to become accustomed to.

The hatch on their door opened with a bang, and the intense brown eyes of Nick Jonas stared through. Those eyes struck ice-cold fear in Tom's stomach.

"Mommy's been released without charge," he said in a self-satisfied manner. Tom's eyes lit up.

"Really?! Thank you!"

Nick smiled; "Naturally, I expect a better "thank you" than that. I'll see you later."

Tom's eyes dropped; "Yes, Sir." He mumbled.

With that, Jonas was gone.

Shawn thought it best to say nothing.

The cell door opened in the dead of night, and Nick Jonas stood silhouetted menacingly in the darkness.

"Move it, boy."

Tom climbed down from his bunk, pulled on his jumpsuit and followed Jonas.

Shawn lay awake as the door slammed shut, shivering in the freezing night air.

The prison workshop was a terrifying place at night. A cavernous, tunnel-shaped room with long wooden benches with vices attached. The only light streaming in through the dirt-filmed windows, from the floodlights outside. The smell of sawdust permeated Tom's nostrils as he was forced to strip, Jonas' flashlight trained on him.

He shivered as his clothes fell to the ground, and Jonas thumbed his crotch through his khakis.

"Get on the table. Slowly."

Tom's hands were cuffed to the vices on either side of the workbench, effectively spread-eagling him.

Securing his flashlight in a vice, Jonas climbed on top of Tom, straddling the naked boy underneath him.

" _Look at me like you're a virgin_." He growled.

Tom flushed red with humiliation as he attempted a look of innocence. Nick laughed, before spitting in his face.

" _Fucking filthy little slut, just like your whore mother."_

Tom's eyes filled with tears, much to the delight of Jonas.

"Oh, we're gonna have some fun tonight."

Shawn lay awake, still shivering in his cell. He'd been counting roughly in his head, it had been at least an hour Tom had been gone for. He was worried for him, who knew what that creep Jonas could be doing to him?

He remembered seeing the teeth marks in Tom's buttcheeks and knew they weren't imagined. His heart hurt to think of what could be happening to him.

Tom's legs were above Jonas' shoulders. Lubricated with only a palm of spit, Tom had screamed in silent anguish as Nick entered him, the walls of his anus widening with the unexpected intruder. He'd been warned before that if he screamed, he'd be put in solitary for a month. So he lay there, face contorted in agony as Nick Jonas pounded deep inside him, grunting and lusting. Sweat dripped from him as he spread Tom's legs above his head.

" _Who's your Daddy?"_ he grunted.

Tears dripped down Tom's face as he thought of Cassandra, her long, flowing black hair. That beautiful, white smile. Those perky little rosebud tits and her smooth alabaster skin.

Jonas' hand slammed down on Tom's throat; " _Who's your fucking Daddy_?" he growled.

Tom choked, spluttering, his eyes begging: "Y-y-y-y…"

" _I can't hear you."_

" _You are…_ " Tom wheezed, and Jonas' grip loosened; "You're my Daddy."

" _You like Daddy's cock?"_

Tom nodded, tears streaming down his face; _"I like Daddy's cock."_

He could no longer feel Nick's balls slapping against his ass, and knew he was about to come.

" _Oh, fuck…oh, fuuuuuuuck!"_ Nick grunted, as he pulled out and spewed ropes of hot, creamy come all over Tom's body and face.

Nick wheezed and grunted as his thunderous heartbeat began to slow. Collapsing on top of Tom, he lay for a second, his muscled, sweaty body dominating the young prisoner.

"You t-tell…anyone…and I'll kill you."

Always the same pillow-talk.

Shawn was in that beautiful realm of slipping between consciousnesses as the cell door opened and awoke him, much to his annoyance. Then he remembered that it was Tom. Thrown back into the cell, the door was slammed and Tom stood for a minute, unaware that Shawn was awake. He stumbled in the darkness to the sink, where he threw off his clothes and began to throw water on himself, scrubbing hard with his hands.

"Tom," Shawn croaked; "Are you OK?"

Shawn could hear the muffled whimpers of Tom's self-loathing.

"I just want him off me, the _smell of him_. Vile, filthy pig!" he whispered.

Shawn climbed out of bed, the freezing concrete on his bare feet making his legs wobble.

"Tom, come on, man." He whispered; "Please talk to me, let me help. Sit down."

He guided Tom to the bed, where he collapsed in a fit of sobs. Shawn sat next to him, patting his shoulder delicately. "It's gonna be ok."

Tom sat up and threw himself into Shawn's arms; "It's…" he choked; "f-for my m-mum…not…for me…you get that, right?"

"Yeah of course!"

They hugged passionately.

"And d-don't you g-get any ideas. I'm straight, mate." Tom laughed through his tears. Shawn playfully punched Tom's arm and laughed too.

"Well, you are naked, and I've kinda got a woody."

Soon, they were in fits of giggles. Tom fell asleep in the crook of Shawn's arm, warm and safe for the first time in forever.

Six – Ebbtide's Revenge

6am came too soon, and Shawn stood exhausted at morning roll call. Tom glanced across at him, a sincere smile on his face. There were no words needed.

After breakfast, Shawn was assigned to laundry detail and buddied up with an older black man named Monty, who walked with a limp and talked in an old-fashioned Southern drawl.

"Now," he said; "All's you gotta do, is fold this here laundry when they come out of the dryers and put them in the carts o'er here. Uniform with uniform, towel with towel, and so forth. Easy-peasy. We'll attend to the washers and dryers."

Shawn nodded and began his mundane task. Simple though the task was, the heat and humidity in the cramped basement laundry was overwhelming, and Shawn broke sweat not ten minutes in.

At 10:30 prompt, Deputy Chief Cavill approached.

"X8998, you've got your meeting, move it out."

Cuffed and marched into another part of the prison he didn't recognize, Shawn was led into a small, windowless room, with only a two-way mirror and a desk inside. He'd watched enough cop shows to recognize an interrogation room. Cuffed to the bolted-down chair, Cavill told him his lawyer would arrive any minute.

The door swung open and a young, blonde woman walked in. She was not the least bit what Shawn was expecting. Tall, with pale, almost translucent skin and long straight platinum hair. She smiled warmly.

"Shawn Mendes? I'm Cordelia Foxx, your new lawyer."

She shook his hand despite its shackles. Her smile was endearing, and her slight lisp softened her voice. She took the seat opposite him.

"I'm afraid we don't have much time together, so I wanna cut to the chase. Cameron Dallas, your so-called "partner in crime", was sentenced this morning."

Shawn was gleeful; "How long did he get? Longer than me?"

Cordelia looked crestfallen; "Four years."

Shawn's stomach lurched; "How the fuck is that fair?! He was the one who organized it!"

"He's pinning the blame on you. You must have heard that in his testimony at your trial. You _were_ the one with an untraceable gun in your hand when police caught you."

" _It was his!_ " Shawn protested; "He already had it in the car!"

"Shawn," she said calmly; "May I call you Shawn?"

"Call me whatever the hell you want, but just _get me out of here_!" Shawn pleaded.

"I will," she soothed; "But it will take time. I wanted you to be prepared because Mr. Dallas is being sent here, too."

A wave of nausea washed over him. _This couldn't be happening._

"I'm aware of the particulars of your case," she continued; "And your Mother has briefed me very well on you and your history of anxiety. I know his presence here could trigger you, so I'm going to advocate for you both to be kept in separate blocks, but that power doesn't rest with me unfortunately. But, you want some good news?"

 _Nothing could be worse_ , Shawn thought, before deciding to keep it to himself.

"Harvey Gettleman, your old lawyer, is a very competent man, but not when it comes to criminal trials. His experience is as a civil litigator. My experience is all criminal cases. And the important thing is, Shawn. _I believe you_. And I am going to get you a re-trial, with a jury who will also share my belief in you. I can't promise you a non-custodial deal, but I will get you a far lesser sentence, six months to a year tops, and maybe a year or so probation."

Shawn scoffed; "And how will you do that? Get Cameron to confess to it all and get himself 20 years?"

Cordelia smiled; "Luckily, I don't have to. The story he told in court is bullshit, and I can prove it. And I can put enough holes in the prosecution's story to sink it ten times over. And you and I have the ultimate upper hand." She hushed her voice, to a dramatic effect; "Because I know where those drugs and that gun came from. All I need is the proof. Trust me, Shawn. _I will get you out of here_."

The shower, for all its heinousness and frigidity, was welcome after the backbreaking day in the laundry. Shawn luxuriated in the freezing water, allowing it to drench and momentarily soothe his screaming muscles. His hands dry and cracked from the cheap laundry detergent, Shawn used more soap than necessary to try and mend them. He'd grown accustomed to the feeling of eyes on him in the showers, and tried to give them no thought, but he couldn't shake the feeling that someone's eyes were constantly on him, surveying him.

As he dried alongside Tom, he saw Stiles bounding toward them, eyes aglow with excitement.

"Oh my God!" he said with a flap of his hands; "You'll _never_ guess what's happening!"

"What?!" Tom said, with mock-excitement. Stiles' eyes narrowed;

"You know sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, right?"

Tom rolled his eyes; "Get to the point, Stiles."

"After my petitioning the warden…we're getting a Fright Night for Halloween!" his gawky smile was infectious.

"What's a fright night?" Shawn asked.

Stiles leapt into the air; "Are you serious, Canada?! Its only, like, the greatest night of the year! We get movies! I'm talking Friday the 13th, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Halloween!"

Tom gasped; "Wes Craven or Rob Zombie?"

" _Duh…_ Wes Craven!"

Tom punched the air.

"You got that from petitioning the warden?" Shawn asked. Stiles made a face.

" _Yeah_ , well, more like _badgering_ actually."

"Is that safe, you think?" Shawn asked; "I mean, with regards to some people in here?"

Stiles rolled his eyes; "Who are you, my Grandmother? What exactly will they do? Try to stab you with a Spork?"

Henry Cavill's heart gladdened to see his wife's white Prius in the driveway before him. The lights were on low, making the lawn of their Glendale tract house shine with a pale beige ambience. Taking his boots off at the door, his feet ached after the long week of 12-hour shifts.

"Hey!" Cordelia called from the kitchen. She appeared, a large glass of Rose wine in her hand. Her feet were bare, and her blouse undone just enough to get Henry excited. He smiled.

"Wine already, Mrs. Cavill?"

She smiled a girlish smile; "It's Friday, and you have a weekend off, for once." She approached sexily, giving him a peck. He held her close, inhaling her Ghost perfume. Tousling her blond hair, he whispered;

"Fancy a Chinese and Casablanca?"

"Sounds great." She whispered back.

The phone rang a shrill screech, making them both jump.

"Jesus!" Cordelia muttered as she answered; "Hello?"

"Delia, darling!"

The voice was unmistakable.

"Hello, Fiona."

"I _hear_ ," she croaked between drags of her cigarette; "That you were here today, talking to one of my prisoners?"

Cordelia sighed; "Yes, I was talking to one of my clients."

" _I'm aware of that!"_ Fiona snapped; "What I am unaware of, is why that was not cleared with me beforehand."

Cordelia smiled cheekily; "I had the authorization of the Deputy Chief of Security."

"Ha!" Fiona barked; "Tell your darling husband that if he undermines me one more goddamn time, he'll be on his ass quicker than mustard on a tie at a county fair. And we both know you can't afford the mortgage of that cute little prairie house on your measly retainers."

"If that's all there is, Fiona? Any other ugly little comments you'd like to make?"

"I think we're done," Fiona gloated; "But don't you dare talk to one of my prisoners again without _my_ express permission."

At the end of phone calls, most people tell their children; "love you, bye." Instead, Cordelia Foxx got an impersonal "click" and the crisp buzz of white noise. Tears welled in her big, brown eyes.

"Let me guess," Henry said, walking through with a beer in his hand, and his shirt unbuttoned to the waist. "Mommie Dearest?"

Cordelia nodded; _"Fucking bitch."_

"I don't know why you let her get you like this," Henry said approaching her; "She's not worth it."

"Every corner I seem to turn in my life," Cordelia whimpered; "She's right there to bitch-slap me right back."

Henry sighed; "Listen, missy. Chinese is on its way, Mister's home for the weekend, forget about that bitch…I mean, my beloved boss."

Henry smiled his devastating handsome smile, and Cordelia was putty in his hands. She smiled and snuggled into his broad, hairy chest.

It had been officially the last day of Summer, and the night drew in cold, with a still air that seemed to permeate the very skin of the guards in the watchtower. Looking out over the deathly silence, all seemed to be well.

Stiles Stilinski lingered in the shower a little longer than usual, talking hyperactively about his "Fright Night" success. The miniature TV's in each cell were never used, other than for local events of interest or news about the prison. Fiona Goode did not approve of criminals lounging around watching television.

Standing in just a towel, Stiles spoke to a group of Southside Creepers, who looked depressed by his mere presence.

"Aren't you guys excited?!" Stiles asked, his eyes gleeful and hands widely gesturing.

"I don't know why this guy doesn't get punched more often?!" someone called from the back.

Panic registered in Stiles' eyes, as Bastien, the guard on duty poked his head around the door.

"Stilinski, you've got 'til I count ten to get your scrawny ass dressed, or I'll frog-march you to your cell butt naked."

Stiles was dressed by the count of eight.

Marched to his cell, he talked the whole way, eliciting mere eye rolls from Bastien. Finally at his cell door, Bastien let out a sigh of relief.

"You have a new cellmate." He said nonchalantly. Stiles looked dumbstruck.

"Who is it?"

Bastien sighed; "I hope you don't mind but you'll be sharing a room with Marilyn Monroe."

Stiles grimaced; "Sharing with a dead woman? Not cool, man!"

"Just get in your fucking cell."

The door opened, and Stiles stared into the cold blue eyes he'd feared for five long years. The heavy steel door creaked to a close, as Stiles turned to protest, but it slammed shut with a damning finality.

His stomach twisted as Stiles realized that standing behind him was Derek Hale.


End file.
